


Growth

by roselightsaber



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Gardens & Gardening, Jedha, M/M, Self Confidence Issues, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 04:32:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10153724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roselightsaber/pseuds/roselightsaber
Summary: Baze never feels quite good enough.





	

Baze takes a long breath and looks over the temple gardens. He is technically off-duty, but he finds himself checking on his carefully planted rows of survivors anyway. They are natural and fabricated at once, in this lone patch of green, leaves and soil and fruits, surrounded by cold sand and stone. Here the Force is a peaceful hum to Baze’s senses, drawn toward and radiated from the rare scrap of  _life_  in equal measure. Below the surface, mechanisms work to keep the garden temperate and fertile where no such support should exists. Baze knows the devices inside and out by now, panels and pipes and climate control units, minerals and fluids balanced, keeping the earth alive despite the best efforts of Jedha to crush it and carry it away on the winds as everything was bound to eventually. Always just adept  _enough_ , studious  _enough,_  Baze finds himself lacking either the qualifications for or the desire to be prideful -- but in this, at least, he feels useful. 

No matter what shortcomings may be present in his senses, though, Baze can always feel when Chirrut mentally reaches for him. It should be chilling, he thinks, ghostly tendrils of energy feeling for his emotions, sensing things concealed, but instead it sends a prickle across his skin, like moving into direct sunlight. That’s exactly what Chirrut is: ethereal, glowing bright. A force at once natural and otherworldly, he gives off the sort of warm energy that Jedha completely lacks, the very absence that Baze has to struggle to offset. He wishes to give in and bask in it sometimes, to let Chirrut’s light wash over him, and maybe to absorb some tiny fraction of whatever essential part of him it is that gives him such power in the first place. But, Baze knows, he cannot allow himself to linger in that light for long.  

He closes his eyes when he feels the nudge of Chirrut’s presence behind him, wondering if Chirrut can so easily sense him without sight as well. “You’re not meditating,” His voice lilts across the space between them, effortless and musical. “So why the closed eyes? Hoping I’ll sneak up on you?”  

“You can’t sneak up on me.” Baze turns to face him, eyes open to drink in the sight of him, his too-bright, too-warm Chirrut. “And even if you could, you’re doing an especially poor job of it right now.” 

Chirrut scoffs, that pushing, feeling energy receding though his presence is more than enough to warm Baze through on its own. “That’s because I’m not trying, you fool.” 

“Are you off duty tonight?” Baze hopes his tone isn’t entirely perfunctory -- it’s bad enough that he has Chirrut’s schedule nearly memorized; he certainly doesn’t need to give it away to the other. Or maybe Chirrut already knows, and it’s just another of the many things he’s too kind to say. 

“As it happens, I  _am_.” He smiles, as bright and sincere as ever, and Baze doesn’t dare try to feel for anything to the contrary. Chirrut would notice the intrusion, but even if he couldn’t, Baze would be too afraid of what he might find. “I assume you are too, since you’re out here.” 

“I am.” Baze wonders -- almost a complete thought itself, a constant enterprise, when Chirrut is involved. He  _wonders_ , in this case, how it is Chirrut is so sure he’s not working, wonders what’s hidden beneath his inflection, wonders what he’s doing seeking him out in the first place. He only asks about one, though, and toes his way around it cautiously still. “What are you doing out here?” 

Chirrut gives him a look -- sight not required -- as if he’s just started speaking in tongues. “Looking for you, of course.” 

He substitutes a meaningless sound and crouching to read a panel half-concealed in soil for an answer. 

“How are your plants?” 

“They’re not  _my_  plants. They’re everyone’s.” 

“Fine.” Chirrut flops down on the ground next to Baze in a graceless heap, a starkly different image from his effortless, gliding zama-shiwo. “How are  _our_  plants?” 

Baze feels the tips of his ears burning. “They’re doing as well as they can,” He answers, voice tight. “Mineral imports are getting too expensive, just like everything else. The soil isn’t perfect.” 

“Do you talk to them?” 

It’s Baze’s turn to give the other an incredulous look, and though Chirrut can’t see, the cheeky grin on his face is a sure enough sign that he can feel the bewilderment pointed his way. “To the plants?” 

“Mother used to talk to our flowers.” Chirrut’s tone is lighter than the energy around him. Baze always feels it constrict when he speaks of the past, as if he has to hold it closer. “And sing to them.” 

Silence hangs thickly between them as Baze searches for anything to say that won’t be insulting. “These aren’t flowers.” 

“It’s probably nonsense either way,” Chirrut adds with a wistful smile. “Besides, these plants have you fussing over them constantly. I think Mother’s technique was a bit of a last resort.” 

Baze laughs softly. “If prices keep going up I’ll have you teach me a couple of songs.” 

“Hopefully it won’t come to that.” Warmth coils out from him again as he tilts his head toward Baze, not quite meeting his eyes, though Baze is always impressed by how close he comes. “Now, I recall you saying you were off-duty...” 

“I am, officially.” Chirrut shows no sign of climbing back to his feet, so Baze rocks back on his heels and sits next to him, still looking over the field before them. “But I don’t trust the other gardeners. At least not when conditions are like this.” 

Chirrut pulls his knees to his chest and rests his chin on them. It makes him look younger than his twenty-two years, stirring up childhood memories that clutch too tightly at Baze’s heart. “A parent who doesn’t want to leave the kids with a nanny,” He teases, that blinding-light smile crossing his face again. 

“Did you come out here to pick on me?” 

“I came out here to find you.” His expression softens, and for a moment Baze thinks he could survive the entire cold season sleeping on the ground on nothing but the sunlit energy rolling off his friend’s slight frame. “No other plans.” 

Baze eyes him with unconcealed skepticism. Their friendship has always been something of an enigma, albeit one for which he is infinitely grateful. Chirrut belongs with another class of beings -- luminous creatures like himself. And, granted, he is friends with them too; no one is immune to his innate charm, and he fits naturally wherever he goes. Sometimes, though, Baze feels like he should grant him a warning.  _You are better than them. You are better than me. You are so much better than all of this._  Jedha, dead and cold, does not deserve Chirrut. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Chirrut murmurs knowingly, as if to prove Baze’s unspoken point. 

Baze drops his eyes away guiltily. He doesn’t dare try to parse out to which  _like that_  Chirrut is referring. “I’m not looking at you,” He lies, the bitter shame of it on his tongue only overshadowed by the pressure in his chest at knowing that Chirrut wouldn’t believe him for a second. 

Instead of rightly lashing out, though, Chirrut just goes quiet a long moment, the Force around him murky and unreadable. He finally nudges Baze lightly once more, breaking through the awkward lull. “What are you reading there?” He gestures toward the panel Baze had been inspecting. “There’s a screen, right?” 

“Oh -- yeah.” Baze turns back toward the panel, unsure whether to be relieved at Chirrut’s interest or wary of whatever it’s concealing. Nonetheless, he can’t resist sharing his pet project with Chirrut -- those fragile things he cares about too deeply. “Yeah, there’s a readout here. Vitals for this section.” 

“What are these, anyway?” Elegant fingers reach for thin shoots where they spring from the dirt, and Baze shifts over so he can move closer, exploring. Chirrut leans in, sniffing curiously at the foliage. 

At once Baze’s ears are burning again, and he turns his gaze away from the serene image as soon as he feels his eyes lingering. “Does it smell like anything?” 

“Not really,” Chirrut answers, feeling his way up the nondescript leaves. “Vegetation. That doesn’t narrow it down very far.” 

“They’re daro roots. The whole block,” Baze reveals with a chuckle, eyes drifting back in time to catch the indignant purse of Chirrut’s lips. “And they’re in pretty good shape, despite you plucking at this one.” 

“Should I sit back and  _look?”_  

“I didn’t say that,” He laughs again as Chirrut brushes the dirt from his hands. “Maybe you should talk to it.” 

Chirrut hums softly, a sound so gentle that Baze closes his eyes to soak it in without thinking. Fortunately, Chirrut either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, his focus now on the plant sprouting from the ground next to his knees. He places a careful hand on either side of the stalk, careful not to disrupt it or the neighboring shoots, and Baze feels a twinge of deep fondness, and prays Chirrut will disregard it as easily as he had the fluttering of his eyelids. 

“It must be difficult,” Chirrut begins, and it takes Baze a moment to be certain Chirrut is addressing the buried vegetable. “Jedha is a hard place to grow. But you’re doing well. I can’t really tell, but Baze is a genius, so I trust him when he says so.” 

“Some genius,” He scoffs at the idea. “All I did was read the screen--” Chirrut’s head snaps toward him so suddenly he’s stricken silent, the fragments of his objection catching raggedly in his throat. 

“You’re going to fight me on this -- to a daro root. Are you very worried about how it perceives you?” 

The flushed heat that never quite left the tips of his ears rushes to burn Baze’s whole face, red and chagrined and  _silent_. 

“As I was  _saying_ ,” Chirrut continues. “You are very well taken care of by this humble fool.” A soft sigh rustles the narrow topmost leaves of the stalk. “He’s very good at this kind of thing. Do me a favor and grow extra big and delicious so he’ll believe it.” 

Baze still sits an ashamed muteness, scolded and embarrassed and oddly touched all at once -- burned by that light he never deserved to come so close to. He swallows and digs his fingers in the dirt at the edge of the garden where it fades back into dead Jedhan sand. He bolsters his broken voice as well as he can with cynicism. “You say such foolish things.” 

“You really think so?” Baze is surprised at the lack of bite in his tone as Chirrut sits back again, shoulder to shoulder with him.  _Grounding_ , Chirrut had called it -- maintaining just enough contact that Chirrut knew exactly where he was without ambiguity. The thought of his presence, his  _touch_ , comforting the other even in such a small way ties Baze in knots. 

“Sometimes,” He answers, as honest as it is vague. Solid answers about how he thinks of Chirrut are elusive now, even within his own mind, either impossible to convey or pushed away as far as Baze can get them, weighed down with shame. There was a time it was simpler, maybe; he’s just twenty-three but he and Chirrut have been friends for over a decade now, so close they were nearly inseparable in their youth. Now there is just enough distance, a border Baze guards militantly, only against himself. There was a time, too, when he might have let that line become blurred. 

“You’ll make fun of me for the phrasing,” Chirrut murmurs. He leans against Baze’s shoulder, and it makes Baze  _ache_ , deeply, a disembodied pain compounded by the humiliation of being felt. “But I wish you could see yourself with my eyes.” He silences the obvious joke with a faint smile. “ _Metaphorically_ , obviously.” 

“Your eyes are too generous,” He answers, forcing a soft laugh. “Metaphorically.” 

“You really believe that.” It isn’t a question this time, but one of those disconcertingly firm, knowing statements, the smile fading from his face. “Look at what you’ve made here, Baze.” 

Biting back to urge to argue that Chirrut doesn’t know what he’s looking at, Baze looks over the mottled green oasis carved out of the dust. “I am not  _arguing,”_ He says carefully -- no surer sign that he is doing exactly that. “But you know I’m not the only one who works here.” 

“You built half of these machines from scratch and you’ve probably repaired every one of the others. I spend a lot of time with you, you know. I know how hard you work.” He closes his eyes. “But more than that -- I know you can feel the living Force here. And to me it feels like  _you_.” 

Baze turns his eyes toward him again, feeling the traitorous grasp of affection wrap around his heart too tightly. Even when Chirrut is upset, that bright solar warmth doesn’t let up; if anything it seems to ripple off the other with  _purpose_  now, folding over and around his shoulders, a comfort he’s done nothing to earn. “It means a lot to me,” He finally mumbles, his gaze lingering too long on every curve, every angle of Chirrut’s face in the waning daylight. “To be able to make a difference.” 

“You...” Suddenly breathless, Chirrut shakes his head, straightening again so their shoulders just barely touch. “You can’t imagine the difference you make.” 

Baze digs his fingers down into the gray sand and dust. “I do what I can,” He says simply, letting the fine particles fall through his fingers. “I can’t be like you, but--” 

Chirrut interrupts him sharply for a second time, this time with the added intensity of being already much too close to ignore. “Like me? What do you mean?” 

“You have such...light.” It’s the first time he’s even attempted to put it into words, and to process the language when he’s too close to Chirrut to even safely entertain the thought seems impossible. “It’s blinding.” 

“I don’t know what that means, Baze, but...” His exasperation is apparent, but softened with his implacable caring, too strong even to quibble over the word choice again. “Everyone has a light in the Force.” 

Baze shakes his head. “You have  _gifts_  I could never begin to understand.” 

“You think too highly of me and too little of yourself.” He leans against Baze’s shoulder again. “ _That_  is what blinds you.” 

“What is it you think I’m not seeing?” 

“Whatever it is you feel from me -- that’s the Force moving  _between_ us. It’s as much you as it is me.” He reaches over to find Baze’s hand in the sandy soil and give it a squeeze, startling Baze into looking at him again, face flushing. “You turn away so harshly from what we  _share_.” 

Baze swallows. The thought of how he taints the bond of which Chirrut is so protective overshadows the warmth he should feel at the acknowledgement of their connection. “I treasure what we share.” He stares downward, wishing he could sink into the sand to get away from the overly sentimental words. “I want to protect it.” 

When the long silence prompts Baze to finally lift his gaze again, he sees Chirrut’s eyes closed, his face turned toward him pulled into a frown. “You’re so shut off these days,” He whispers, and Baze feels that _push_ of Chirrut’s mind, his living Force, against his own, as real and tactile as Chirrut’s fingers still laced between his own. “There was a time we could read each other inside and out.” 

“That’s--” He trips over the words. “We’re still close.” 

“We were _closer_. I thought we--” For the first time Baze can remember, Chirrut is the one to stumble, hesitate on his words. 

Baze watches him with fear-laced fascination. The light of day has faded, and Chirrut is illuminated by the eerie, glowing combination of faint starlight and distant temple torches, the light playing beautifully over his features, as if his inner glow has lifted outward to just beneath his smooth skin. Full lips twitch with the weight of unsaid words and Baze’s eyes linger far too long, filling his senses with the imagined feeling of them. Chirrut can feel his eyes on him, Baze knows, but he can’t seem to stop himself -- shamefully. 

“You thought -- what?” 

“It was different between us then. If we were off-duty on a nice night like this, even just a few years ago, would we be sitting here like this? With you staring at me like something is _wrong_ with me, and never reaching for me?” His voice cracks with emotion and goes softer, pleading.  “You hardly even smile at me anymore.” A beat of stunned silence passes between them before Chirrut remembers to actually answer the question. “I always thought we’d be together. You used to show me such affection…” He’s blinking back tears suddenly but Baze is too frozen to comfort him, or to do anything other than stare and try to process what he is saying. “I miss you.” 

All the air has left Baze’s lungs suddenly, and his head spins with the effort of reconciling all of this information. “Together…” He repeats breathlessly, finally recalling how to move, at least enough to reach out to wipe stray tears from Chirrut’s cheeks. The other’s hand folds over his and holds it there, nuzzling his palm. He can feel his light, that warmth he’s been refusing to indulge in at the expense of Chirrut’s feelings, and suddenly he can feel it for what it is. “You deserve so much better than I can give you, Chirrut. I never meant to hurt you.” Chirrut’s living Force, his _love_ , is nearly smothering, sunlight woven into silk coiled all around him, and he can only lean into it further. “I never even knew you felt what I do.” 

Chirrut lurches forward, falling into Baze. He catches him, wraps his arms around him, squeezes his eyes shut, tries not to indulge in the thought that they fit together _perfectly_. “How could you not _know?_ ” 

“I couldn’t--” Chirrut curls against his chest, practically in his lap, and it takes Baze several seconds to convince himself to rest his hands against the other’s back. He is white-hot with emotion mingled with the tactile heat of having him so close for the first time in years. “I couldn’t think of it when you deserve so much more. And anyway, I couldn’t imagine you thinking of me like that.” 

“Such a fool, always,” Chirrut murmurs, but his voice is nothing but fond. “I’ve been trying to win you over all this time and you’ve been looking the other way because you think you haven't earned it?” He cups Baze's cheeks in both hands. “You use that word too much -- worrying about who _deserves_ what. It's not like you to think in those terms.” 

Faint insult breaks through his confusion long enough to draw a scowl across his features. Chirrut traces the crease in his forehead with gentle fingertips. “I think highly of you. There's nothing unusual about that, even if you think it's too much.” 

“I don't like it,” He says, with heart-shattering plainness. “You look up at me so much that you’ve started to think you're below me.” _But I am,_ he thinks. _And I've been climbing for years_. “We've always been _partners_ _._ ” 

“Chirrut, I don’t want to argue with you.” Least of all, he thinks, while the other’s hands are reading his face for some signal he won't even realize he's giving. “Maybe I don't understand how you see me.” 

“I see you as you see me,” He answers softly, and Baze feels equal parts wary and relieved at the gentle tone matching the trail of fingertips across his cheek. Chirrut knows him. “Someone bright and warm.” His lips twist into a bittersweet smile as one hand sweeps over to trace up the shell of his ear, too big, and still too warm thanks to this closeness. “And I see a frustrating man, who hasn't figured himself out. But there's no shame in that.” 

Baze closes his eyes. No shame -- it had been a while since he'd escaped feeling shame at much of anything at all. Chirrut's frankness, though, has a calming quality, and his accepting, affectionate nature begins to feel like less of an undeserved award and more of a kind offer to Baze. Maybe his judgement is clouded at having Chirrut so close, maybe he's only fooling himself. But when Chirrut leans close and kisses his forehead, he feels _loved_. 

“You are a good man. A devoted man. And you wouldn't deny anyone anything according to what someone else thinks they _deserve._ ” He moves to sit next to him again, but he stays close, letting his head droop onto Baze's shoulder. “Look at what you've made here. You help feed everyone who comes to this temple. Men who have tried to rob us out of desperation have eaten from this garden next to our elders.” 

“I'm not in charge of _that_.” 

“Well, would you change the rules?” 

“No.” 

“Then stop splitting hairs and let me praise you.” The words twist Baze’s stomach in knots more tightly than ever even as Chirrut punches his shoulder playfully. “The point is that you wouldn't tolerate someone talking down to anyone else the way you talk about yourself. I wouldn't ever--” His voice trembles slightly. “If you don't feel something between us, I won't push you. But either way -- you deserve love.” 

Baze is stunned silent for what feels like an eternity. He curls an arm around Chirrut's shoulder long before he manages to find any words, and when he does they come out hoarse and halting. “I do -- I feel--” He huffs a tired laugh at his own stumbling speech. “I've loved you for as long as I can remember.” 

“You never told me…” 

“I couldn't, Chirrut. I hardly know how now.” Desperation permeates his words more than he would like. An apology doesn't seem like enough, and though his friend’s words are reassuring, he still isn't sure _he_ is enough, either. “I thought telling you would ruin things.” 

“It doesn't,” Chirrut says with a faint smile, holding out a hand for Baze to take. “It didn't change a thing, so that's one worry you can cross off the list.” He holds Baze's hand in both of his. “I hope it lightens that burden you carry.” Baze holds his breath when Chirrut lifts his hand, kisses his palm. “And I hope you'll let me help with the rest, too.” 

Baze is still silent, though not from fear this time, not even from the tightness in his throat as he tries to keep his emotions in check (although it's not helping). Words won't come to him because there is nothing he can even think to say -- he _has_ no words for such kindness, an acknowledgement of his internal struggle phrased without judgement, only with an offer of support. He moves closer instead, letting Chirrut wrap him in an embrace. 

“Do you trust me, Baze?” The whisper takes him by surprise, close enough to his ear for Chirrut's lips to brush his skin. 

“Of course I do.” 

“Then believe me. If we ever needed to earn each other's love, or do something to _deserve_ it, we've done that a long time ago.” He gives him a little squeeze. “I can't change how you see yourself, but I can promise you that I want you.” 

“I believe you.” Not completely, not without hesitations and worries and caveats, and not without knowing Chirrut is aware of it all -- but saying it is worth something, anyway. “I know you care, Chirrut, you've always shown me.” 

Chirrut pulls back from him, looking satisfied, hands securely on his shoulders. “It's getting late,” He says, as if he knows he's pushed Baze as far as he possibly can in one conversation. “You know, I came out here to find you to haul you off on a date you wouldn't have even known was a date. This turned out better.” 

“Sitting in the dirt is better?” Baze smiles shakily. Nothing has changed, yet everything has changed, and finding his footing again will take some time. 

“With you? Of course.” He receives a gleaming sunshine smile in return. “You feel different here, sometimes. Like you’re soaking up good things along with your plants.” 

“It's…the life in this place, I guess.” He slowly hauls himself to his feet and offers a hand to Chirrut to pull him up after. “The Force moves differently around it.” 

He touches Baze's cheek curiously. “It's beautiful.” 

“Mm. Thank you.” He puts a hand over Chirrut's. “I'll work on it properly in the morning. You should join me.” 

“Ah? Do you have some big plans?” 

“I'll tell you all about it tomorrow.” He tilts his head to kiss his palm. “By then I'll have made something up to impress you.” 

Chirrut laughs loudly enough to lift the chill of the evening. 


End file.
